Plateful of Murder (23 page)

“But, he’s—”

“He’s home, minding his own business, like you should be. Let’s go.”

I put my car in gear and purposely drove ten miles under the speed limit all the way home. Corrigan loved to speed, so this was my petty revenge. It took about fifteen minutes extra to get there, and I was still fuming.

He opened my apartment door and followed me in. “Okay, Claire, we can watch TV together or play cards, or whatever. Your choice.”

“None of the above.” I sniffed and pulled a diet soda for myself and grudgingly grabbed another one, thrusting it at him. He accepted with a smile.

I crashed down on the sofa, arms crossed. He joined me, grabbed the remote, and chose a comedy. His laugh was mellow, masculine. Had I been less peeved, the sound would’ve have been pleasing.

As if to tease me, he scooted closer. Cozy, but it didn’t suit my mood. I snatched the remote and put the television on mute.

Wanting to have the height advantage, I stood. “How can you sit there, with Michael doing who-knows-what? He’s already been at the hospital twice. He drugged me.
And
told me he wrote those threatening letters to his sister. He fooled me into thinking he didn’t kill Constance so I didn’t tell you about the letters.” I put my hands out in case he wanted to cuff me. “Now you could arrest me for withholding evidence. But it’s better than letting the real killer go loose.”

Corrigan’s face hardened. Had I gone too far with accepting arrest? What if he thought throwing me in jail was a good idea? Did my cousin, Anthony, handle criminal cases anymore?

His phone rang and he took his time answering. “Yeah, be right there.” After hanging up, he took my hands into his. “Got to go. Promise me you’ll stay here until I come back.”

A little alarm in my head told me this had to do with Constance’s murder. “What if you’re gone a long time, like until morning?” He took a deep breath, ready to say something, but I stopped him. “If what you’re about to do has anything to do with Constance, Ed, or Michael, shouldn’t you let me come along?” I watched his expression carefully to see if my suggestion had a chance.

It didn’t. Without saying a word, he threw on his sport coat and straightened his tie. “It’s police business.” I frowned, and he softened. “But if this pans out, I’ll come get you. So stay put.”

The set of his jaw told me arguing would be of no use. “Promise.” Besides, if I made him mad enough, he may not keep me informed.

“Lock the door behind me.” He rushed out and I did as he said. This would be a long night.

Like so much else in this case, I was wrong. Less than five minutes after Corrigan left, something slammed against my door. A wave of nausea hit me as I recalled the sound of Mallorie’s body slumped against my office door. This time though, the body could be Corrigan’s.

I grabbed my new gun in my unsteady hands and yelled, “Who is it?” No surprise that no one answered. My eye up to the peephole provided no clues either.

I dialed 911 with my free hand, then held the phone up to my ear. Not knowing if someone was lying in the hallway, hurt, I unlocked the door but left the chain in place; no sense taking chances.

The hairs on my neck were on high alert and would’ve run off if they could. The door creaked as I cracked it open to peek out.

An arm I didn’t see slammed the door furiously against my hand, ripping the chain lock off the door. My gun and phone went flying toward the bathroom hallway. Before I could react, someone barreled into me, shoving me further into the room. Without taking his eyes off me, he locked my door behind him.

“Hello, Claire.”

My feet felt glued to the floor and my knees quivered so hard they knocked together. I swallowed hard. “Michael.”

M
ichael motioned toward my sofa. “Please, sit down.” The twelve-inch blade of the knife in his hand glinted off the ceiling light.

My legs felt fifty pounds each as I backed up. They finally hit the cushion, and I collapsed, my eyes frantically scanning the area for my gun.

He lowered himself into the chair that sat catty-corner from the sofa. “Hate to break in on you like this. But you gave me no choice.”

I dug my fingers into the sofa cushion to steady myself. “Why are you here?”

Michael leaned forward. He clucked his tongue and slowly shook his head, like he felt sorry for me. “I really liked you, Claire. Thought you felt the same for me.”

To move away from the knife, I sank back. “I do, Michael.” My voice sounded calm, but my insides rocked and rolled.

He waved the knife at me like it was a pointer. “No. You spied on me.” He paused for a moment. “I trusted you. Even told you I wrote the letters to Constance.” He almost pouted. “And you let me kiss you.”

I rubbed the palm of my hand over my cheek where his lips had been, wishing I could remove the top layer of skin. Fearful of making things worse, I turned my grimace into a weak smile. “You were right to trust me, Michael. But as a private detective I’ve got to be ever vigilant and questioning.”

He shook his head slowly, regret shadowing his face. “I tried to keep you safe. Pleaded with you to drop the case. Used my songs to warn you.” He rubbed his forehead with his free hand. “Even drugged you to get you out of harm’s way.”

“But, how could I have known the trouble you went to?” I put my hands together as if praying. “Please, Michael…”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe Eagleton killed my sister. Do you?”

“Of course I do. You know, Corrigan is on his way here. Let’s continue this conversation another time.”

He shook his head and moved over to the sofa, sliding close enough to me his left thigh touched my right one. In an instant he twisted his torso, and grabbed me in a chokehold with one arm, holding the knife against my back with his other. “This is the last time.”

His weapon could enter my back with the least bit of struggle.
Best to keep him talking. “
If you kill me, the cops will know Eagleton is innocent.” My heart pounded so hard I felt the pressure in my temples.

“I’ve thought of that.” His voice took on a Vincent Price quality. “But it’d be different if you committed suicide.”

I whimpered. “You don’t want to do this.”
Clearly he did.

“I
am
sorry.” He pulled me to my feet.

“Wait!”
Stall.
“At least tell me why you hired me and then killed your sister.” The knife shook in his hand, and I was terrified he’d cut me right then.

“I wanted her to know someone was watching her. So I hired you. I had to make sure she wouldn’t go back on our deal. Her death was an accident. I didn’t mean for her to die. If she just hadn’t reneged.”

Squirming and trying to loosen his grip on my arms didn’t work. “Deal? For money? But you’re already wealthy.”

He sniffed. “
Was
wealthy. Bad investments.”

“Biologic Solutions. Was the deal with them?”

“Smart girl. Yes.” Sounding like a kid tattling, he added, “Eagleton and Sean Lawrence were part of it too.” His voice grew sharp, resentful. “But Constance thought she was in love with Luther, and didn’t want to betray him. So she betrayed me instead.”

I wondered if
rigor mortis
would set in by the time Corrigan found me. “So what happened?”

“She’d already stolen the formula for a new youth-preserving drug. We were supposed to meet Bio Solutions and hand it over. We’d split the money.” He tightened his lock on my neck and I gasped. “But Constance hid the formula. She caught me tearing her office apart looking for it, and went after me. I pushed her out of the way and she fell.” His voice broke and the knife broke my skin. I closed my eyes and bit my lip hard.

Michael’s words were thick with emotion. “She hit her head on her desk corner. It was too late for me to do anything. She was already dead. I still needed the formula even more so I tore her office apart. It wasn’t there.”

He continued. “Mallorie saw everything. I couldn’t afford to keep paying that bitch. She got what she deserved.”

I wanted to rip this monster’s head off, but contained my rage. “And Ed?” I whispered in a hoarse voice.

“An unavoidable casualty.”

Fear made it hard to keep my mind from scattering. “Does it get easier each time?”

He spoke as if involved in a philosophical conversation, “You could say it does grow on you.”

“But you can’t keep killing people.”

He pulled me up. “You’re right. You’ll be the last. Assuming your friend, Ed, doesn’t wake up.” He maneuvered us toward the bathroom.

I teetered and almost lost my balance, but he held me up, increasing the pressure on my throat. I was lightheaded, but needed to keep it together. “The break-in at your home? Was that to throw suspicion off you?”

He exhaled loudly, annoyed. “Yes.” He yanked me back. “No more questions.”

“Please, Michael, don’t do this.”

“No choice.”

Now or never.
I pushed back into him as hard as I could. Occupied with maintaining his balance his knife drooped slightly. I stepped onto his foot and mashed my heel in.

He yelped in pain and the knife clattered to the floor. Able to break free, I dove for my gun, spun around and aimed it. This would’ve been a great time for Corrigan to get back. Didn’t happen.

Michael stared at the weapon and his face went from red to white. “You can’t shoot me.” He took a slight step toward me and I took one backwards.

The gun seemed to gain weight as I held it. When one hand waivered. I clutched it with both. “I will if I have to. Don’t make me, please.”
Could I really?
I didn’t want to find out. “We’re going back to the living room and calling the police.”

He didn’t move.

I readjusted the gun in my hands. “Let’s go.”

He placed one foot toward the living room. Instead of continuing in that direction, he lunged at me. His hand dug into mine as we struggled for the gun. A shot fired into the toilet tank. It exploded and water gushed everywhere.

We tussled for a moment. Then with a final yank, he wrestled the gun from me. As I let go, he stumbled back, lost his balance and conked his head on the counter. I snatched the gun from his limp hand and held it on him.

Breathless, I said, “Get up.”

No response. I nudged him with the toe of my shoe. No reaction.

Then I did the dumbest thing in the history of private investigatordom: I bent down to see if he was conscious.

His hand shot up and he grabbed for the gun, but I gave the weapon a tug using all my remaining strength. To keep possession, he wrapped his hand around the barrel. My finger was on the trigger and the gun went off once more. This time the bullet threw him back as it slammed into his chest.

B
lood everywhere. I yanked a towel off the bar and pushed it against his leaking wound then began rising to recover the 911 call. But he squeezed my wrist.

His voice was weak and thin. “Best to die here.” With that, his eyelids drooped and his hand dropped away. He released a final shudder and was gone.

I collapsed back onto my rear and clasped my knees to my chest. Tears streamed down my face. At almost the same time, I laughed out loud because I was alive. But the laughter quickly morphed into a hoarse sob. I covered his face with the towel and stepped away to call 911. But didn’t need to. A siren screamed nearby, followed quickly by a pounding on my door.

A familiar, welcome voice. “Police. Open up.”

I sprang to the door and flung it open. Corrigan’s eyes grew wide when he saw blood splattered all over me. His hands flew to my shoulders.

“It’s Michael’s.”

Corrigan’s shoulders dropped with relief. “We got your 911 call. Where is he?”

“In there.” I pointed my thumb toward the bathroom. “We struggled. He’s dead.” I lowered my head, not wanting Corrigan to see the tears that had started anew. Bad enough he’d noticed my shivering. He guided me to the sofa, took off his suit jacket, and wrapped it around my shoulders.

A couple of uniformed cops walked in and headed to the bathroom. Corrigan followed. “I’ll be right back, Claire.”

A short time later, Corrigan bent down next to me, his voice hushed and gentle. “Can I get you something? Water, diet pop? How about a washcloth?”

I shook my head to the soda, but gratefully accepted the wet cloth. Corrigan pulled out his small notepad and a pen. “Are you able to give your statement now?” He placed his hand over mine. “Take your time.”

Halfway through retelling what happened, my mouth dried out and I asked for a diet soda, but would have rather have had a shot of whiskey. Finally finished, I was proud to have gotten through my statement with only one breakdown.

The coroner arrived, did his exam, and Michael’s body was taken away. The gun and knife were placed in evidence bags.

“Will I be arrested?”

“No, but you may be asked more questions. You’ll be fine, though.” Corrigan helped me up. I swayed, but he held me firmly. He smiled and the warmth reached his eyes. “Someone would like to see you.” He looked at my torn and bloody clothes and frowned. “Maybe you’d like to clean up first.”

I scrubbed my face and hands, then all the way up to my elbows until they felt raw. I went into the adjoining bedroom and threw on some jeans and a top. Zipping up my jeans, Michael’s shooting came back to me and I burst into tears. Cries so strong it felt like they’d rip my gut apart. I fell back onto my bed, curled up and rocked back and forth.

Corrigan rapped on my door. “Are you all right?”

A wobbly, “Give me a minute,” came out. I swallowed the last of the sobs, and wiped the dampness from my cheeks with the back of my hand, and splashed water on my face to hide the tear tracks. The final touch was some lipstick.

Corrigan had parked himself so close to my bedroom door I almost ran into him. He took in my puffy face but made no comment. We didn’t talk until we got into his car.

His hands firmly on the steering wheel, Corrigan looked straight ahead. “Some say the first is the toughest. I say anytime you have to shoot someone it’s hard.”